I also remembered the looks neighborhood folk would shoot in my direction, like I was some sort of anomaly they simply didn’t bother to understand: the motherless girl, who preferred denim to taffeta any day, with her dominantly Latina features (juxtaposed against a face full of freckles) behaving like a boy. She never quite fit in with everyone else. The thing was, in all those years, my differences never seemed to matter to Connor or Mike. For whatever reason, those two always accepted me as I was, no matter what anyone else in the neighborhood thought or said. It was probably why it all hurt that much more when Mike left Sage and me in the first place. It was just so confusing and difficult to comprehend that it had actually happened. I had always felt safe around him. I had trusted him to be different.
“Well, you did the best you could. I know you did.”
It was the most I could say without prompting my father to deflect my compliment with well-timed acerbic humor. He wasn’t sentimental, wasn’t the type to get teary-eyed and bring me in for a big hug followed by fatherly words of kindness. But in his own way, in the only way he knew how, Dad had tried the best he could. Even when he was simply impossible, I knew he was trying.
“Jules, I understand if you don’t want to live in my house, but have you considered renting it?” He paused for a moment, contemplative. “Norwood has always been a home to immigrants, to people trying to get a fresh start here and find their way. The faces may have changed, but surely their hearts haven’t. Couldn’t you could find a nice person or family to rent it to?”
“Dad—”
“Just let me finish. Maybe someone who works at the gardens or the zoo, and would like to live in walking distance. Or a new teacher who’d like to be close to the school. You can fix it up, make it beautiful again, and give someone like that a chance. I know some fellas would section it off and rent the rooms out to people down on their luck, but don’t do something like that. It’s not right. Instead, you could even rent the second floor to a family and use the first level for yourself. It can be a kind of office for you, a quiet place to go to if you’d like to get some writing done—”
“I never have time to write—”
“But you could. Now is the time to pick it up again. Please, Julia, stop interrupting me and listen. There are good people who would like to live in that house, I’m telling you. You could rent out the second floor and keep the first floor to yourself. Turn it into your own creative space, a place to get away and have a few moments for yourself to think in peace. Then in a couple of years, say that family decides to move on, and you’re ready to move on to something new yourself, you can sell it. I bet it would be worth a little more by that point.”
Writing. I hadn’t had a moment to myself in years, and he knew that. It wasn’t that I didn’t have stories to tell—they were always floating around in my mind. And it certainly wasn’t a fear of success. Every so often I’d daydream about finally holding a published copy of my own work in my hands, instead of someone else’s. I’d even send a free copy to anyone who ever doubted me, from all those cliquish know-it-all neighbors to my ninth-grade math teacher who always went out of her way to put me down in class. Attached to each book, they’d find a note reading the same simple message: Thanks for nothing.
Before I could even open my mouth to reply, I was taken off guard by the sudden buzzing of an incoming call. Unsure of how I should respond to my father’s suggestion, I fumbled awkwardly as I tried to fish the cell phone out of my tote. When my fingers finally made contact, and I grasped it within my palm, the buzzing stopped, and I knew that I had missed the call. It had been Mike.
“Dad, I should probably take this and get moving. Do you mind? We’re supposed to get together for Sage’s birthday tonight and give Mike a little Chicago send-off as well. I haven’t even had a chance to work on her cake, and I still need to stop by the grocery store to buy the cream cheese for her frosting. That reminds me, Sage is coming by tomorrow. She keeps bugging me to see you. She really misses you.”
Dad looked thoughtfully off into the distance, yet again, as if contemplating anything and everything all at once. I tried my best to patiently give him those few moments alone in his thoughts.
My father finally turned toward me again. “You should go speak to Michael then, and you should head back home. I don’t know much about cream cheese frosting—which, by the way, sounds downright awful—but I do know a girl should have a special cake, especially when she turns sweet sixteen,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
I had to smile at the antiquated notion. I had already endured another long diatribe, delivered personally by Sage, about how sexist the concept of a sweet sixteen party was to begin with. How there was no way she and her friends were going to parade around in gender constrictive fashion in the name of perpetuating cis feminine norms. How she’d be open to dinner and cake, but only because she liked cake, and would celebrate with friends later, her way. Sage had then thrown in a lot more terminology that I wasn’t even familiar with. Luckily for me, one of the perks of being a high school teacher was that teenage students would gladly fill me in on the meaning behind more contemporary vernacular if I asked. The funny thing was that Sage’s logic behind rejecting the sweet sixteen tradition essentially mirrored what I had believed in when I turned sixteen over two decades earlier.
“Are you sure, Dad? I can take the call but still stay a little longer with you if you’d like,” I said.
“That’s not necessary. All I’m interested in right now is sitting on this here bench,” he tapped it twice with his hand. “She’s the one who needs you. Like I’ve said before, I had a good run. It’s Sage’s turn now.”
“Don’t put it that way—”
“Not about to mince words with you, Julia.” Then he smiled. “I never have. I never will.”
“Okay… thanks, Dad,” I replied with uncertainty. “We’ll be here tomorrow, though, bright and early.”
“Go bake that girl a cake… and save me a piece. Maybe you can scrape off the frosting.” Dad softly chuckled to himself.
“I will. I promise.” Then I stood up, awkwardly for a moment. It was the part where other parents would hug their children, and perhaps even say, I love you before parting ways. But my father never did anything like that, unless it was a special occasion (like Thanksgiving or someone’s graduation). So, instead, I gave him a little wave, followed by a light pat on his rounded shoulder, before turning away to head back towards the doors that led to the building’s main entrance.
“Julia!” he called out abruptly.
I turned around once more. “Yes, Dad?”
“If you decide to sell the place now, not wait and renovate or rent, could you at least sell it to someone nice, someone who might fix it up? Make a real home out of it for his family… or her family. I’d like to know that a nice person gets to have it.”
I smiled, accepting and resigned. It was the closest thing I was going to get to a hug on that afternoon.
“Sure thing, Dad.”
Chapter 12
Sixteen Candles
Sage
“You have money for a cab and my card?”
“How many times do we have to go over this? When have I ever forgotten your credit card, Dad?”
I was just teasing him, but I could tell by his reaction that the words just didn’t come out the right way, and that was because I was struggling—struggling to keep my eyes open, struggling not to be cognizant of, and silently count, each breath as it swept in, out, and through my nostrils, eventually escaping my raw, blistery, chapped lips. I was even struggling to keep my head held upright; its full destabilized weight felt almost oppressive against my shoulders—like a house of cards anticipating its fall. I imagined my neck and chest slowly opening and expanding, further and wider until eventually, they merged into one single, gaping hole—a withering, waning cavity hungry to swallow up my entire face, body, everything. And then I would disappear into the hopeless abyss of nothing.
“Sage? Are you all right, honey? Is something going on with you?”
Dad’s widened eyes practically drowned in sincerity. He was worried about me. All the signs were there: from his deeply furrowed brow to the almost childlike way in which he subtly fidgeted his weight from his left foot to his right. Unresponsive, I slid my hand along the polished circular rim of the dining room table, back and forth. I soon found myself lost in that repetitive motion, feeling the sensation of its glossy, smooth surface beneath my fingertips—calming me, momentarily centering me. I couldn’t quite look directly at Dad but couldn’t look away from him either. Gazing upward, my focus traveled to and rested just above his shoulder, and I was encompassed by that lost and fuzzy feeling. Then I felt myself drift off into a comfortingly deep, long stare.
“Sage!” he repeated, only this time louder and more urgently.
I blinked. Once. Twice. Finally, I stopped playing with the table’s surface and looked directly at him.
“Yeah? I’m fine, Dad. Just feel a little out of it this morning.”
He didn’t believe me.
“Because we’re having cake tonight at your mom’s,” he continued, “and if you’re not feeling… Well, let’s just say it’s better to cancel now before she gets all carried away. Your mom has been having a difficult time lately. I don’t want to see her get all worked up for nothing.”
I sighed dismissively in response. Since when did Dad care about what was going on in Mom’s life? I was the one who spoke to her on the phone every day.
“Sage, don’t give me that look. I emailed to say we’d be there for dinner, and you know how she gets when it comes to punctuality. Dinner starts at 6 p.m. sharp. She was very insistent—”
“I know, I know,” I interrupted. “Just because I’ve been with you for a while doesn’t mean I completely forgot about what it’s like to live with her. Families across this country, with any sense of decency, eat dinner at 6 p.m. Dad, I got it.” I held up my hand and proceeded to count on each finger as I rattled off his three rules for the day: “No taking the subway unless there’s some crazy gridlock situation and it’s absolutely necessary; no getting into trouble of any kind; be back no later than 2 p.m. so we can get ready for dinner with extra time to spare.”
Dad slowly nodded his head in silent approval and then rewarded me with a quick peck on the forehead, even though there remained a hint of skepticism in his eyes.
A soft buzz vibrated against the other side of the dining room table where he had left his phone.
“Just a moment, Sage.” He reached over to pick it up. Dad looked at the screen and then drew in his breath sharply. “There goes any chance of enjoying this afternoon in peace. Hold on a sec. It’s Jeff, from the office.” He said from the office as if I needed an explanation, like I hadn’t noticed the fact that everyone from his office blew up his phone all day, every day.
Dad typed a quick response, waited a few seconds before Jeff’s text chimed in, and then texted back again. The conversation continued for some time, with Dad pretty much forgetting I was even in the room. Meanwhile, I had found myself sunk very low into my seat, feeling the full weight of my body fight against the force of the chair keeping me upright. I imagined what it would feel like to slowly melt, slide right off that chair, and sink straight into the kitchen floor. Transfixed by my sudden daydream, everything slowly became blurry again as I felt myself, my consciousness, drift from the confines of my body—floating upwards and away. For those few moments, it felt like I could look down from the ceiling and watch myself as if viewing a stranger—peering into her life, not my own.
“Well, this can’t keep going on… No, I’m not going into the office today,” Dad murmured absentmindedly under his breath, his focus still entirely on the screen.
I blinked, then came back suddenly. Those were my feet, my hands, my body—no one else’s.
“This isn’t going to work… Sage.” Dad looked up from his phone, finally. “Sage, they need me in. I’m just going to tell Jeff I’m available until noon today, but that’s it. We’re headed to Westchester, and I need a break.” He reverted his full attention to me. “I know it can get busy, Sage. It must feel like you’re getting the shaft, and I feel horrible about this right now. I mean, a lot of girls your age have a huge party—”
“Dad! Just stop.” Knowing full well where the conversation was headed because we had had it about a million times before, I slammed down on the table with both fists, hard. “I… don’t… want… a… party!”
God, he was acting so annoying lately! Within the past month alone, he had been giving me these weird, almost cryptic looks, as if he were trying to memorize my face or something. But then he’d go right back to ignoring me. All I ever heard about was Chicago, and it made me so angry! How many texts could one person get? His cell was continually going off—ping, ping, ping. I wanted to pry that phone out of his hands, as if that were even possible, and hurl it from the rooftop into oncoming traffic. Not like that would change anything.
“Okay, okay. Fine. I just don’t want you to feel ignored today. You’re still my little angel, no matter what, and you should have everything you deserve. I’m not trying to short-change you. I mean that.” He held his hands up defensively.
I shot him a nasty look and gestured impatiently towards his phone.
“Sorry.” He placed the phone in his back pocket. “I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t trying to ignore you. It’s—”
“I know who it is, Dad.”
I folded my arms protectively across my chest. I had listened in on a bunch of the phone calls. He was all set to work out of Chicago’s office by the end of next week, and he’d be gone for a whole month. The worst part was that he didn’t even have the decency to admit that this was only the beginning. Dad was going to leave me again.
He wouldn’t survive two weeks outside of New York City. He was just kidding himself. And if he thought, for even a second, that I would entertain the idea of flying out to visit him… well, he had another thing coming.
It was a stupid idea, and I wasn’t the only one unhappy with it. Dad and Sheila were always fighting about it. Apparently, she had some sort of moral compass after all and was pushing behind the scenes to get Maliek, a far better writer than her, promoted instead. But Dad had his plans, his vision, and he wasn’t quite ready to accept that the rest of us weren’t happily going along for the ride. There was no use in trying to sit down with him and logically explain it all, detailing how wrong he was about everything. As usual, he insisted on doing what he wanted—and learning the hard way.
“I know it’s the weekend, and I ought to leave work at the office,” he continued. “There’s just a whole lot of everything going on right now. Sage, you can’t begin to understand how big this is.”
Oh, I understood perfectly. A whole lot of crap was going on right now. Dad was the one who didn’t get it.
“I don’t want anything. I don’t want a party. I don’t want presents. And I don’t care if you’re on your phone, Dad,” I lashed out. “It’s not like you need my permission to look at your phone. And you’re obviously going to keep asking me question after question, suspiciously, because—”
“Sage, you know it’s not—”
“If you don’t trust me to get around the city by myself,” I digressed, “even though I go to school there every single day, then you should just drive me to therapy yourself since I’m obviously just a baby! Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re not headed where I’m going. You’re going to the office.”
I abruptly shot up from my chair, slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, and made a sudden dash for that weird, front overhead gate/door. That was it. I had heard enough, and I was leaving. I didn’t need to listen to another word about Chicago and how big this new opportunity was. Between all the back-and-forth bickering due to Sheila’s insistence on staying put in New York, and all the seemingly endless phone calls Dad fielded in the living room every night and early morning while I tried to slee
p, I had had it.
However, before I could bend down to grasp the gate’s handle, Dad grabbed my other hand and quickly spun me around. “Whoa! Hold up there! Not so fast.”
Darn it. I froze in my tracks. Why was it that adults always fluctuated between wanting to be your friend and acting like detectives ready to bust you? Yanking my hand out of his grip, I glared up at him defiantly.
Without missing a beat, Dad rushed over to the kitchen sink and swung open one of the cabinet doors located directly above it. Reaching in, he fiddled with some coffee mugs—his go-to hiding spot for valuables. I snorted under my breath, which of course he noticed.
“Don’t make fun of it. When our house was robbed, way back when I was just a little kid, your grandma managed to protect our grocery money by hiding it all in a coffee mug. Those jerks never thought to look there.” He produced in his hand a plastic orange prescription bottle—my plastic orange prescription bottle—and shot me that look. It was the rare dad look that he seldom used, but when he did, boy was it effective. “You have to take it,” he insisted as he held the bottle out toward me.
UGH!
“A coffee mug? Really?” I tried to deflect. “Dad, if someone breaks into this place, believe me, they’re not interested in that,” I insisted.
“Sage, you’re taking it.”
I groaned emphatically and rolled my eyes in response. But when it became quite evident by the look on his face that he wasn’t about to budge, I then made it a point to purposely stomp my feet as I edged little by little over to where he stood.
“I shouldn’t have to remind you at this point,” he added gently.
At least he was being somewhat nice about it. Mom would have confronted me about dodging meds and insisted that I drop the attitude.
Painting Sage Page 17